Midnight Quill Trio

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Edward rode the last few hundred yards; it seemed the most prudent thing to do. He didn’t wish to annoy Miss Chapple any more than he already had.

He turned Trojan over to the elderly groom and hurried around to the main entrance as fast as his aching leg would allow, catching up with Miss Chapple on the doorstep. Her bonnet was bedraggled, her gown wet and filthy, her cheeks flushed with exertion.

“How do you feel?” she asked, taking off the bonnet and shaking water from it. “Perhaps you should rest?”

“I’m not an invalid,” Edward said, as the door opened.

They stepped into the gloomy entrance hall. Miss Chapple turned to the butler. “Griggs, can you please send a pot of hot tea to Mr. Kane’s bedchamber?”

“To the library,” Edward said, firmly.

Miss Chapple frowned and opened her mouth.

“I hope you’ll join me,” he said.

Miss Chapple closed her mouth. She lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “Very well.”

Fifteen minutes later, having changed her wet clothes for dry ones, Mattie went downstairs. The library was chilly. A small fire burned grudgingly in the grate.

Mr. Kane stood at one of the windows looking out at the rain. He blocked most of the weak daylight. Outlined against the window, he looked giant-like, too tall and broad to be a mere man. The moniker Toby had given him—Goliath—fitted perfectly.

Mattie pulled her shawl tightly about her shoulders and advanced into the room. A floorboard creaked. Mr. Kane turned his head.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Very well,” Mr. Kane said. “And you?”

“I’m not the one who recently broke a leg,” Mattie said, sitting in one of the leather armchairs beside the fireplace. Griggs had already brought the tea. The tray sat on the little oak tripod table.

“No.” Mr. Kane smiled faintly and sat opposite her.

A short, awkward silence fell. Mattie busied herself pouring the tea. Mrs. Whatley, the cook, had placed a plate of plum cake on the tray. The slices were small. Mattie handed Mr. Kane his tea—no milk, no sugar—and a piece of cake. He thanked her politely.

Mattie cast around for a topic of conversation. “How long have you been back in England, Mr. Kane?”

“A month. I would have come into Northamptonshire sooner, but I visited my parents first.”

“Of course you should have visited them first! They must have been terribly worried about you.”

“Yes.” He touched what remained of his left ear, a gesture she thought he was unaware of.

What had his parents’ emotions been when they’d first seen him? The missing fingers, the missing ear, the scars slicing across his face. Had they been distressed by his injuries—or merely relieved he’d survived?

Mr. Kane lowered his hand. “I have something for you.” He reached inside his coat and withdrew a sheaf of letters. “Your letters to Toby. I thought you might like them back.”

Mattie’s throat constricted. For a moment she couldn’t speak. She put her teacup and saucer on the table. “He kept them?”

Mr. Kane nodded.

Mattie took the letters. She opened one—Dearest Toby, it’s now spring and the woods are full of primroses and birdsong—and folded it again. She placed the bundle on the table alongside her teacup and cleared her throat. “Thank you, Mr. Kane.”

“You’re welcome.”

She looked across at him, seeing the scars, the marks of warfare scored into his skin. He’d clearly come close to death at Waterloo. A question hovered on her tongue. Carpe diem, Toby had always said. Seize the day.

Mattie took a deep breath. “Mr. Kane . . . would you mind telling me about Waterloo? About what happened to you and Toby?”

His face seemed to stiffen, as if the tiny muscles around his eyes, his mouth, flinched and tightened. “Waterloo?”

“Not if it’s too painful,” Mattie said hastily. “In fact, forget I asked. It’s not—”

“I don’t mind telling you, Miss Chapple, but it’s not pleasant listening.” His dark brown eyes held hers. “Are you certain you wish to know?”

Mattie hesitated, and nodded silently. It was selfish of her, she knew, but she wanted to understand what had happened to Toby. She needed to understand.

“Very well.” Mr. Kane shifted his weight in the armchair, settling, becoming more comfortable—but she had the impression that it was for show, that beneath the appearance of relaxation, he was tense. “We both fell in the first charge. My horse was shot from under me.” He spoke baldly, without emotion, his gaze on the fire. “I didn’t see Toby fall, but I assume his horse was hit, too.”

Mattie nodded again.

“I was on the ground—my leg was trapped under my horse, caught in the stirrup—and Toby was trying to pull me free. He . . . a shell struck him. He died instantly.”

Mattie bit her lip.

Mr. Kane was silent for a moment, staring at the fire, a frown furrowing his brow beneath the scars, then he turned his head and looked at her. “Toby died trying to save my life.”

“From what I’ve heard of the battle, he would likely have died anyway,” Mattie said quietly.

Mr. Kane lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He cleared his throat and resumed the tale: “After Toby was killed, I was attacked by a cuirassier, who cut me about the head with his sword.” He gestured to the scars on his face, to his missing ear. “And after that I was bayoneted by an infantryman.” His smile was wry. “I was still half under my horse, you see. Couldn’t get my foot out of the stirrup.”

Mattie nodded. Her throat was tight. She reached for her teacup and sipped, her eyes on his face.

“After the infantryman, came a lancer—” Mr. Kane held out his right hand, showing her the missing fingers, “—and after him, another infantryman.” He grimaced. “I didn’t have much fight left in me by then.”

Mattie swallowed another mouthful of tea, almost choking as it caught in her throat.

“I spent the rest of the battle flat on my back,” Mr. Kane said. He smiled, as if making a joke of it. “I heard a great deal of the action, but saw none of it.”

“Did no one stop to help you?”

His smile became even wryer. “They stopped to plunder me.”

“Plunder you!”

“My watch, my canteen, my money, my jacket.” He shrugged. “Someone even pulled me out from under my horse and took my boots and trousers.”

“Your trousers!”

He mistook her shock and flushed. “I beg your pardon, Miss Chapple. I shouldn’t have mentioned something so indelicate—”

She waved the apology aside. “How could anyone plunder a living man?”

Mr. Kane shrugged. “War isn’t pretty. It brings out the worst in some men.”

Mattie shook her head silently.

“Where was I? Oh, yes, someone pulled me out from under my horse.” He grimaced. “I don’t remember much after that. I drifted in and out of consciousness.”

Mattie sat clutching the teacup, unable to drink, her eyes fixed on his face.

“I do remember that our cavalry charged over us at one point.” He touched his chest. “That was painful. Broke a few ribs.” He smiled again, lopsided and wry.

“But . . .” The word died on her tongue. She swallowed and tried again: “But someone rescued you?”

He nodded. “Yes. Eventually they did.”

“How?”

“Once night fell and the battle was over, I called for help.” He looked away from her, at the fire. “There were a lot of men calling out. I was one of the lucky ones. Some Scots Greys heard me.”

Mattie shook her head. She looked down at the teacup clenched in her hands. She tried to imagine a battlefield at night, the sound of wounded men crying for rescue. “Did you think you were going to die?”

Mr. Kane was silent.

She lifted her head and looked at him. He was still staring at the fire. After a moment he glanced at her and smiled faintly. “I knew I was going to die.”

She felt herself flinch.

“It didn’t distress me, Miss Chapple. I assure you!” The sincerity in Mr. Kane’s voice was unmistakable. He was telling the truth. “It . . . how can I explain it? I lay on that battlefield for hours. It gave me time to accept my death. To make my peace with it. Even when they loaded me into the hospital wagon, I knew I was going to die. I had so many injuries. The risk of infection . . .” He shrugged. “It wasn’t until almost a week later that I realized I was going to survive. It was . . . surprising.”

The muscles in Mattie’s throat were so tightly locked that she couldn’t speak.

“I have the constitution of an ox.” He said it as a joke, smiling.

She returned the smile dutifully.

Mr. Kane’s smile faded. “I told you it wasn’t pleasant listening.”

Mattie put down her teacup. She cleared her throat. “Thank you for telling me.”

Silence fell between them. She should say something, put him at his ease, but her mind was blank. Mattie glanced desperately at the tea tray. “More plum cake?” she asked abruptly, holding out the plate to him.

“No, thank you.”

She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Images crowded in her mind: Mr. Kane trapped beneath his horse, Mr. Kane being bayoneted, Mr. Kane lying helpless while he was looted, while the British cavalry charged over him. But the strongest image, the one that swamped everything else, was the last one he’d given her: a battlefield at night, the darkness broken by the cries of wounded men. She took a piece of plum cake and bit into it. It was dry. The crumbs gathered chokingly in her throat.

Mattie gulped the last of her tea. She groped for a topic of conversation. “What will you do now that you’ve finished soldiering?” He was the youngest son of a viscount—that much she knew—but she had no idea what the state of his finances was.

“I plan to take up farming.”

“Farming?” Mattie said, surprised, her gaze jumping to his face.

Mr. Kane nodded. “My maternal grandmother left me an estate in Cornwall. I’m heading down to see the bailiff next week.” He glanced at the door and stood, making a small bow. “Mrs. Dunn.”

Mattie looked around. Cecy Dunn hovered in the doorway to the library. “Am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all,” Mattie said. “Do join us. I’ll ring for more tea.”

Mr. Kane pulled another armchair closer to the fire for Cecy and Griggs brought a fresh pot of tea. “Is my aunt sleeping?” Mattie asked as she poured.

Cecy nodded.

Mattie sat back in her chair. Tendrils of steam rose from her cup. The library was still gloomy, rain still streamed down outside, but the room seemed lighter somehow, as if Cecy’s presence had made the dark horrors of Waterloo recede.

“Tell me . . . do you read sermons every evening, or is it just Wednesdays?”

Mattie exchanged a glance with Cecy. “Every evening.”

“Hmm,” Mr. Kane said, evidently unenthused by this news. He turned his teacup in its saucer. “Uh . . . I noticed that you were counting the thes last night, Mrs. Dunn.”

Cecy’s mouth fell open.

“You were asleep!” Mattie said, and then realized the accusation was grossly impolite. She bit the tip of her tongue.

Mr. Kane had the grace to look ashamed. “For a few moments, yes,” he said. “You have an extremely pleasant reading voice, Miss Chapple.”

Mattie’s cheeks grew warm. Since living at Creed Hall, she’d fallen out of the habit of receiving compliments. She looked down at her teacup.

“I thought I’d participate in your game tonight, Mrs. Dunn. If you don’t mind? So that I don’t fall asleep again.”

“Oh, do, Mr. Kane!” Cecy said eagerly. “I used to fall asleep, too, until Mattie thought of counting words. I’ve found it a most effective way of staying awake.”

“It was your idea, Miss Chapple?”

Mattie glanced up. Mr. Kane was looking at her. She nodded.

“Clever,” he said, raising his teacup to her.

Mattie felt herself flush again. Fool, to be overcome by such a small compliment.

“I usually decide on a word before Mattie starts reading,” Cecy said. “We can choose one now, if you like.”

“Please,” Mr. Kane said, his gaze shifting to Cecy.

“And and the are always good. And I, with Fordyce. He uses it a lot.” Cecy looked at Mattie for confirmation.

Mattie nodded.

“Which would you recommend?” Mr. Kane asked.

“And,” Mattie said. “The more often a word is used, the less chance you’ll fall asleep, Mr. Kane.”

“Very well; and it is.” Mr. Kane grinned. The grin sat oddly on his scarred face. Those savage slashes carved across his brow and cheeks, that missing ear, seemed to call for a more brutal expression. “I look forward to this evening’s sermon, Miss Chapple.”

Mattie spent the afternoon in her bedchamber, writing. Outside, the rain came down unceasingly, but she scarcely noticed. Her quill scratched briskly across the paper. This was the last chapter, and she knew exactly how it was going to end: Chérie would fall in love with the ugly, pockmarked Colonel F. and marry him.

Her two sources lay open on the escritoire: Fanny Hill, and the diary of the young countess who’d lived so unhappily at Creed Hall half a century ago.

Mattie flicked through Fanny Hill, searching for a passage she could use. My heated and alarm’d senses were in a tumult that robbed me of all liberty of thought; tears of pleasure gush’d from my eyes.

Mattie frowned. It seemed a little excessive. She flicked further ahead. . . . made every vein of my body circulate liquid fires: the emotion grew so violent that it almost intercepted my respiration.

Mattie pulled a face. Liquid fire and tears of pleasure. It sounded rather unrealistic.

She laid aside Fanny Hill, picked up the diary, and turned the pages carefully. Within these calfskin covers, the young countess detailed her growing love for the servant who tended her horse—her groom. Her emotions shone through, even after fifty years.

Each day when I walk around to the stables, my chest tightens with such a mix of hope and dread that it becomes difficult to breathe.

Mattie swallowed. The physical sensations and emotions described by the countess seemed much more realistic. She flicked ahead several pages.

He touched me so tenderly, with such reverence, that it brought tears to my eyes. My trust in him, at that moment, was absolute.

No, she wanted something more physical . . .

Ah, this would do.

A wild eagerness grew inside me. When at last he made his entrance into my body, I shuddered with the pleasure of it. Our coupling was almost animal. I confess, I bit Will’s shoulder to stop from crying out my pleasure. Afterwards, as we lay trembling and sated in each other’s arms, I saw to my shame that my teeth had marked him.

Mattie copied the paragraph, substituting Colonel F.’s name for that of the countess’s groom. She reread it, tapping the quill against her cheek, and then continued: I had never experienced such throes of delight before, such abandonment of my senses, not even in the arms of my beloved—and sadly mourned—husband.

She wrote until dusk fell, and then lit a tallow candle and continued. Colonel F.’s face had become so dear to me that despite the dreadful scars that marked his face, I thought him handsome.

Mattie’s quill halted. She frowned. She crossed the last few words out and rewrote them: . . . despite the dreadful pockmarks that scarred his face, I thought him handsome. Good. She gave a sharp nod. He no longer sounded like Mr. Kane.

She continued. I gazed upon his sleeping form and knew that I loved him.

I would give Colonel F. everything: my trust, my love, my very soul if it were possible. And all he wanted from me was my body.

Mattie grinned as she reread the last two paragraphs. “Don’t worry, Chérie. Tomorrow he asks you to marry him.” She glanced at the clock. Half past five.

Hastily she gathered together the sheets of paper and opened the secret cupboard. Inside were four narrow little shelves. Mattie placed the diary on the top shelf, precisely as she’d found it on that fateful night eight months ago, when a windstorm had uprooted trees in the wood and banged the shutters against the windows, breaking panes of glass, and blown open the latch of the secret cupboard.

A pile of loose pages lay on the middle shelf: drafts of the confessions she’d sent to London. A much thicker pile lay on the next shelf down. Chérie’s Memoir. In another day or two it would be ready to send.

Anticipation tightened in her chest, exactly as the young countess had described, stifling her breath. Soon I’ll be free.

They were one less at dinner; Sir Arthur Strickland was still abed. After a silent and unappetizing meal, they relocated to the drawing room to listen to another sermon.

“Sermon Three,” Miss Chapple read aloud from her position to one side of the fireplace. “On Female Reserve.” She glanced up and for a brief moment her gaze met Edward’s. Her expression was solemn, but a smile glimmered in her eyes.

Edward felt an unexpected urge to laugh. He clenched his teeth together.

Miss Chapple looked down at the open page. “Many of you, my honored hearers, have been addressed in the style of love and admiration.”

One.

Edward glanced at Mrs. Dunn. She sat demurely on the sofa, her blonde hair gleaming in the dull candlelight, her expression attentive.

“I have taken the liberty to address you in that of zeal and—”

His attention snapped back to Miss Chapple. Two.

At last the sermon came to an end. Edward stifled a yawn and added his voice to Lady Marchbank’s murmur of appreciation: “Excellent, Miss Chapple. Excellent.”

Miss Chapple closed the book of sermons and came to sit on the sofa.

“You fell asleep again,” she whispered.

“I deny that,” Edward said, equally low-voiced. “There were ninety-three ands.”

“Two hundred and sixteen,” Mrs. Dunn whispered.

Edward opened his mouth to protest this number, and then closed it again.

A dimple quivered in Miss Chapple’s cheek. Her lips pursed to hide a smile.

They sat for another half hour, while Mrs. Dunn embroidered and Miss Chapple knitted and Lady Marchbank discussed the Reverend Fordyce’s work with Edward. Finally, the echoes of the longcase clock in the hall striking the hour penetrated the drawing room. “Nine o’clock,” Lady Marchbank said, an expression of surprise crossing her narrow face. “I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

It felt like midnight to Edward.

Candles awaited them on a table in the entrance hall, one each, in silver holders. “I hope you had a pleasant evening, Mr. Kane,” Miss Chapple said, while Lady Marchbank and Mrs. Dunn slowly mounted the stairs. Her voice was demure, polite, but amusement gleamed in her eyes above the tiny, flickering flame of her candle. She was laughing at him.

“I cannot recall that I have ever spent a more enjoyable evening,” Edward said, trying to imbue his voice with a note of sincerity.

Miss Chapple grinned for a fleeting half-second, both cheeks dimpling.

Perhaps it was the candlelight casting a golden glow over her features, or perhaps it was the shadows crowding the hall, creating a sense of intimacy between them, but Edward felt a tiny stirring of desire. He wanted to reach out and brush Miss Chapple’s cheek with his fingertips and see whether her skin was indeed as soft as it looked.

Edward blinked, astonished. “Er . . .” he said.

The dimples showed in her cheeks again, as if she suppressed another grin. “Good night, Mr. Kane.”

He cleared his throat. “Good night, Miss Chapple.”

Edward watched her climb the stairs. She was as tall as a man, wide-hipped, the drab, shapeless gray gown making her look almost stout, but—inexplicably—he’d felt a twinge of desire. The first such since Waterloo.

Edward frowned. He’d thought that part of him—lust, desire—had been excised on the battlefield, as his fingers and ear had been. He’d proven his impotence with mortifying thoroughness at Madame Solange’s establishment in Brussels, not once, but twice. That his body should respond to Miss Chapple—however faintly—when even the most skilled and lovely of Madame Solange’s girls had been unable to elicit any response at all, was more than odd; it was incomprehensible.

“Marry me.”

I stared at the colonel, unable to believe my ears.

“Marry me,” he said again, his pock-scarred face solemn in the candlelight.

My heart began to beat loudly in my breast and for a moment I almost swooned. The impossible was happening: my beloved colonel was asking for my hand in marriage.

Joy swelled inside me, bringing tears to my eyes. “Yes,” I said, and then I fell into his eager embrace.

I gazed upon the colonel’s dear, beloved face and swore a silent oath to . . .

Mattie tugged at her lower lip. To do what?

. . . to do everything within my power to make him happy.

She grimaced, and crossed the words out.

. . . to be the perfect wife.

“Ugh,” Mattie said aloud, and crossed those words out, too. She needed something romantic, something final, something—

She dipped the quill in ink and wrote . . . to love him forever.

There, that had a romantic, final ring to it. Mattie reread the sentence: I gazed upon his dear, beloved face and swore a silent oath to love him forever.

“Perfect!” she said aloud. And then she dipped the quill in ink again. And so, dear reader, I come to the end of my memoir. The time has come to lay down my pen and bid you farewell for the final time.

Chérie.

Mattie put the quill down with a sigh of relief. She shook out her cramped fingers. The clock on the mantelpiece told her it was a quarter past midnight. She walked across to the window, opened one shutter, and peered out. It was pitch black outside. The only thing she could see was her own reflection. Hard drops of rain pattered against the glass, making her look as if she was as pockmarked as Chérie’s beloved colonel. The window frame rattled in the casement, letting in a chilly draft.

Mattie closed the shutter. She bundled up the pages she’d written and hid them in the secret cupboard, then climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin.

The sheets were cold. Mattie curled up on her side, shivering, hugging herself. Tomorrow she’d copy out the last chapter of Chérie’s Memoir and take it in to Soddy Morton to be sent to London.

She closed her eyes and snuggled deeper beneath the covers. Soon she’d have enough money to start her new life.